Page 3 of Convict's Game
The bastard strolled away, laughing.
Desperation flooded my system. I tried to swing out of the bed but collapsed on the sheets, drugged up and weak as a kitten. A new fact became clear.
No one was looking for me.
That hollowed me out so badly that next time they stuck me, I didn’t protest.
Instead, I plotted. Over the next week, I played nice with the medical staff while I watched their routine. I faked a lack of interest. I faked a headache so they didn’t judge me as more of a threat. I lied about taking the meds they’d switched to providing in pill form rather than the IV.
My healing was going well and the heavy cast on my leg scheduled to be replaced with a walking boot.
The minute I was upright, I was gone.
The day dawned, and I was helped into a wheelchair and taken to a room where the cast got sliced away. A single nurse waited to escort me back to my room where I was due another dose of pain meds.
I wasn’t going back. I’d tested my strength in private moments, and it had come back in spades. Outside the room, I was going to turn and stride in the other direction and not look back. They couldn’t stop me.
Only one issue remained: I had nowhere to go.
After a month in that fucking bed, I still had no clue of the name I used on a daily basis. No phone, no TV in my room, no visitors besides the cop. Even the home address in my records felt like a stranger’s.
Maybe I’d go there. Maybe I’d end up on the streets. Something about my scars and how ready I felt to use my fists told me I was a survivor.
The medic who’d removed my cast helped me up. My nurse steadied me on crutches, then together, we shuffled to the door, the weakness a pretence on my part. Sure, I wasn’t at peak strength, but I could fucking run.
In Deadwater Hospital’s bright corridor, I readied to go.
But down the hall, a woman stared at me like she’d seen a ghost. “Am I high, or is that really you?”
A stranger.
No.
Platinum hair, a banging body, kind eyes. I knew her, didn’t I? Hell if I could recall her name.
Steadying myself on my crutches, and with the nurse hovering at my shoulder, I formed a half-smile, temporarily frozen in my plan. I hadn’t expected that. A familiar face. “I guess so.”
Blondie’s gaze sank over me, taking in the boot. The bandages and healing scars.
“Oh, hun, I thought you were dead. We all did. Do you remember me? It’s Dixie. Have you been here the whole time?”
The name resonated. She was a sex worker, my mind finally supplied. Or maybe an exotic dancer? I’d definitely seen her naked, but not in the touchy way.
She was a friend. Holy fuck.
At my nod, Dixie whipped out her phone and stabbed at the screen with hot-pink nails. Her call connected, and she spoke in a rush, her other hand going to a bandage at her throat. “You’ll never guess who I found. It’s Convict. He’s alive.”
Convict.
Emotion lurched inside my chest. At long last, I had an identity, even if I was apparently named after a criminal record. Not only that, but someone was looking for me. My plans flexed and shifted.
“Dixie?” My tone still held a rasp after the smoke damage from the unknown fire that left the burn marks in my skin. “If I wanted to leave this place, do I have somewhere to go?”
Pity filled her eyes. “You don’t remember the warehouse? The skeleton crew?”
At my side, my nurse clucked her tongue. “Mr Locke, without family to discharge you into the care of, you should remain here. The police recommend?—”
Dixie returned the nurse’s challenging glower and interrupted. “The police can suck it, hun. We’re his family, and if you get in our way, I’ll have the whole skeleton crew down here to take our boy home.”
